al

I received a letter today. Not in the mail, but a casual hand delivery as I was joining a friend for dinner. He said I couldn't read it until I was home, so I didn't. Of course, I always have to read everything he writes me at least thrice, it is deep, dense and always very moving. Every time, I want to laugh, and every time, I want to cry. It's very much like a highly concentrated version of life, emotions that should be drawn out and subtle come and go in seconds with amazing intensity, leaving me drenched with my own uncontrollable feelings. I go from him soaked pain and sorrow, and covered with bliss and love. Yet, we hardly ever exchange a meaningful word. He says, "And speak we did, as we always do, filling the potent silence between us mainly with inconsequential things,

'Of shoes - and ships - and sealing wax -
Of cabbages - and kings -
And why the sea is boiling hot
And whether pigs have wings.'

Airy, polite, and... innocent." I cannot deny that to a stranger the content of our exchanges would seem utterly vapid, and yet, and yet... I feel that I am only speaking for the benefit of those nearby, for the silence between us and our veiled stares communicate more than any spoken words could.

I will admit that if things had turned out just a little differently, I would be him. There is no question.

Oh, and I got a job.